


That I Miss You

by atamasco



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Sex, Character Death, Drinking, Drunk Sex, M/M, Post Season 4, Post-Canon, Thomas and Silver have a drink and share their memories of James, everything hurts and nothing is beautiful, god help me, i need to warn you that no one is happy here, pre treasure island possibly, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11539200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atamasco/pseuds/atamasco
Summary: ‘I’m sorry for coming in so late’ the man says with an apologetic smile. ‘But I am not here for a drink. Or perhaps I am.’‘Whichever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that this tavern is closed,’ John repeats for the third time, crossing his arms over his chest.The man clears his throat and takes a few more steps till he is standing right in front of the bar.‘John Silver?’John raises an eyebrow. ‘Who wants to know?’‘My name is Thomas. Thomas Hamilton.’---He despises James, for resting in peace and leaving the shards for John to pick up.Dying is easy.Livingis what takes effort.





	That I Miss You

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to @youatemytailor for proofreading this! You always know what a story needs to make it work.

It’s late, well past dark, and the last few customers have only just left the tavern. It’s been a long day and John has a lot on his mind. The place is his to run by himself for a couple of days, with only Elsie to help him out. It’s clear the girl isn’t built to work in a tavern, no matter how hard she tries. The last in a long line of blunders had happened only a few days ago; she had dropped a full tray of glasses in the middle of a crowd of customers. Afterwards, she had begged John and Madi not to fire her because she needed the money. Madi, being soft of heart, had told her that of course she could stay, mindless of John’s long-suffering sighs. Elsie was not a very talented waitress but still the customers seemed to like her. John figured there was no harm in keeping her on as long as their profits didn’t turn into losses.

They have built a decent life for themselves in Bristol, Madi and John, although there has been more friction between them in recent years. They are both stubborn and that does not always work out well for them. Just this morning, after hours of shouting and porcelain cups hitting the walls of their home on the second floor, Madi had packed her bags and told John she would be staying with friends in Keynsham for an indefinite amount of time. John was used to it by now. He understood that she needed the space, to be away from him sometimes. John trusted that she would return – she always did.

So now John is alone at the tavern, having sent Elsie home after the last straggling customer had walked out. He has just finished cleaning the tables with a wet cloth and is wringing it out into the wash basin behind the bar when he hears the door creaking open. A rush of wind hits his back.

‘We’re closed!’ he shouts without looking up.

The door falls shut and footsteps approach over the wooden floor. 

John lets out an irritated sigh. He drops the cloth into the basin, wipes his wet hands on his apron, and turns around.

A tall man is standing in the dim light of the tavern. He has short blond hair, peppered with grey, that has been slightly ruffled by the wind. He’s wearing a dark shirt and brown trousers, a long coat over them, and a scarf around his neck that he has just started to pull off. His clothes look simple, yet stylish.

‘Good evening,’ the man says.

‘Not for you, I’m afraid. I said we’re closed.’

‘I’m sorry for coming in so late,’ the man says with an apologetic smile. ‘But I am not here for a drink. Or perhaps I am.’

‘Whichever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that this tavern is _closed,_ ’ John repeats for the third time, crossing his arms over his chest.

The man clears his throat and takes a few more steps till he is standing right in front of the bar.

‘John Silver?’

John raises an eyebrow. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Thomas. Thomas Hamilton.’

John blinks. Takes in the sight of him. For so many years he had wondered about the mysterious Lord Thomas Hamilton – what did he look like, what did his voice sound like? Who was this man that Flint had started a war for?

He must have been so impressive, John had thought. The few times he had talked about Thomas, Flint had made it sound like he was as close to a god as any man could ever be. Equal in charm, equal in wits, equal in determination. Heads would have turned when he entered a room. Stars would have shined a little brighter when he laughed.

And now this man standing in front of him is telling John he is that very man. John is having a hard time reconciling the image with the one he had pieced together in his mind.  

Because standing in front of him is just a man.

‘Why are you here?’ John asks.

Thomas smiles at him – a bit crooked.

‘It’s about James.’

‘What about him?’ John asks, trying to sound casual.

Thomas averts his eyes, fumbles with the scarf in his hands.

Thomas has come to the tavern alone. The fact that he is here, without James, means that something is off. James is not well. It cannot be that he is sick, however: if James were ill, Thomas would be with him. The fact that Thomas has left home to make the six-week journey to England can only mean that –

John notices the bags underneath Thomas’ eyes, the deep lines in his face, his hollow cheeks.

‘He’s –’ John starts. The dawning horror knots the rest in his throat.

Thomas looks up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

John turns his back on Thomas and places his hands on the edge of the wash basin, leaning on it. Holding on to it for balance. He takes a deep breath.

James Flint is dead.

He had wondered if Flint was still alive. It had been so many years since the end of the war. John is an old man now, and Flint had been older than him. So, logically, it was very well possible that Flint had passed. Maybe a year ago, maybe five. Maybe only yesterday.

The last time John had seen Flint was on the way to Savannah. The last he saw of Flint, was his back as he walked through the gates of the plantation.

John had watched him disappear from his life. Watched him become smaller and smaller with each step, until he was no more than a tiny, unrecognisable figure in the distance.

And the guards had closed the gates, blocking him out from Flint’s future.  

He had done the right thing. It had not been easy, but he had to do it. He saved their lives.

That is what John told himself when he lay awake at night.

Madi had never forgiven him. Something had permanently broken between them on that day and there was nothing John could ever do to fix it.

Nevertheless, they held on to each other. What it was that kept them together, some days John didn’t know. Comfort, perhaps. They knew each other like no one else did.

And memories, of a time in which they meant something. When anything was still possible. When they still had hope for something better.

Shared memories. Of a man who had walked into their lives and taken direction of it.

‘How –’ is all he can say without giving away the tremor in his voice.

‘He took ill,’ Thomas says quietly. ‘It all happened very quickly. He didn’t suffer. He lies buried in the garden behind our home.’

John reaches behind himself to pull at the strings of his apron. It falls loose and he takes it off, places it down on the counter. He grabs a bottle from the counter – rum, how appropriate – and pours two glasses. He puts them down harshly on the bar right in front of Thomas – who startles a little at the sound – and hops around the bar on his crutch.

He takes a glass, waiting for Thomas to do the same.

Thomas places his coat and scarf down onto the stool behind him and picks up the other glass. He looks like he wants to say something, but decides not to. He takes a sip.

John knocks back his own in one go. The bitter liquid burns his throat as it slides down.  

They sit in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

‘Was he…were you happy?’ John ask quietly.

Thomas smiles. ‘Yes, very much so.’ He looks up at John. ‘From what I understand, we have you to thank for that.’

John huffs a laugh. ‘I don’t think _thanks_ is the word he would use.’ He grabs his crutch to walk back and take the bottle to fill their glasses again.

Thomas gets up. ‘Please, let me do that.’

John does not enjoy people offering their help without him asking for it. Like he would ever ask for it. But over the years he has learned that it is easier to just let them. There is no use in making a fuss over it. They don’t understand it, cannot wrap their minds around the reasons why a person who obviously needed help wouldn’t want any of it. Some took it very personally, even. Became angry with him when he turned them down, for reasons that John in turn could not wrap his mind around. ~~~~

‘He missed –’ Thomas starts as he refills both of their glasses, and then seems to reconsider his words. ‘He was very fond of you. Even as angry as he was, for a time, I could tell he cared for you deeply. You were his…’ He looks over at John, then, an uncertain frown around his eyes.

‘His friend,’ John finishes. Because that is what they were to each other. They were friends. Yet for some reason the word seems empty, meaningless. Laughably insufficient to describe what they were to one another.

But it’s the truth. It’s what they were. Partners. Captain and Quartermaster. Friends.

‘You have a wife, am I right?’, Thomas asks.

‘I do,’ John says. ‘Madi. ‘She isn’t here right now. Visiting some friends of ours.’

‘James told me about her. He admired her greatly.’

A sick feeling comes up in John’s stomach. Madi will be back in a few days and he will have to tell her that James is gone. In this moment she is still blissfully unaware of the loss of their friend.

One time, when they were lying in bed together, Madi had spoken softly. She had told John that she would like to visit James and Thomas. See how they were doing, after they left the plantation.

John had dismissed the idea. They were probably living under different names now, he said. It would be impossible to find them. He had told her to let it rest.

Madi never brought it up again.

John would be lying if he said he never thought about it himself – seeing James again. During the months after they separated, John spent a lot of time thinking about the things he wanted to say, the things he should have said to James, but never had. The things he would like to say if he ever saw him again.

_I loved you. I miss you. I’m sorry._

He had spent days like that, wondering where James was and what he was doing right now. Was he reading a book, working in his garden, enjoying the feeling of a summer breeze caressing his skin?

However simple these things were, however foolish it seemed to think about them, John couldn’t stop himself. He felt uneasy with not knowing what James was up to, after he and James had been so close for so long. He had known James’ mind as if it were his own. Being cut off from him, being on his own again, took some time for John to adjust to.

He wondered if James was happy, with Thomas. He wondered if there were streaks of grey in his beard. If he let his hair grow long again. If he had found the peace he so longed for.

If he ever missed John the way John missed him.

Over time, the ache in his heart grew dull. He stopped torturing himself with questions, and accepted the fact that they would never be answered.

Thomas swirls his drink in his glass. ‘Do you have children, you and Madi?’

‘No, we don’t,’ John says. For whatever reason, Madi had never gotten pregnant from the times they lay together. And over the years the intimacy between them had slowly gone out, like a dying flame; diminishing any chance of her ever becoming with child.

‘Did you want them?’, Thomas asks. He grunts, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Forgive my impertinence. It is the drink talking.’

John chuckles. ‘It’s fine.’ He’s always found it easier to be honest with strangers than with loved ones. The truth doesn’t matter to people who don’t matter to you – the truth is harmless in their hands. He doesn’t know where Thomas is on that scale yet, between strange and familiar. He knows who Thomas is, but he doesn’t know him at all.  

‘Madi wanted them. I didn’t. Didn’t trust myself to be a good father to them.’

Thomas nods, understanding.

‘And you?’, John asks. ‘Did you want children?’

Now it’s Thomas’ turn to laugh. ‘That would have been slightly difficult to achieve for the two of us,’ he says. ‘But, aside from that, I think I would have liked having children. I envy their ability to see the world so unprejudiced, and to explore it with so much curiosity.’ 

John absentmindedly shoves his glass back and forth over the bar in a repetitive motion, scraping over the uneven surface. He does not envy children in any way. More than that he feels sorry for them; for their ignorance, their inability to judge if something is good or bad, right or wrong. Their naïve and endless trust in the adults around them.

‘James would have been a good father’ Thomas says softly. ‘He had a very caring nature. One day he found a nest of chicks by the side of the road, abandoned by their mother. He carried them home in the hem of his shirt and raised them all back to health.’ Thomas smiles. ‘They wouldn’t stop following him around, even after they were all grown up. It got to a point where James started to find it annoying because he could never put his foot down without having to worry about accidentally stepping on one of them.’

John tries to imagine Captain James Flint being followed around by a string of chicks. Tries to imagine Captain James Flint carefully holding a baby chick in his large, calloused hands. John has never been able to imagine him in combination with anything other than guns and blood and seawater.

Perhaps he was right after all, in telling himself that Captain Flint had ceased to exist to make way for James McGraw. Perhaps the man he remembers isn’t the same man that Thomas is talking about. And so, maybe it is a good thing he never went to look for him.

He swallows the lump that is forming in his throat. There is no use in thinking about things that are long past.

John looks up when he hears Thomas chuckle absentmindedly at something he’s thinking. To his own surprise John finds himself chuckling with him, even if he doesn’t know what Thomas is laughing about. Thomas raises his eyes, still smiling.

‘He told me a story once,’ he says, voice warm with amusement. ‘Of how you killed a shark together while nearly starved.’

‘ _Two_ sharks, actually,’ John corrects him. He laughs.

It seems so long ago. It seems like another life. Another him. He was another man back then.

James had changed him, undeniably. Whether he wanted it to happen or not, whether he realised it in time or not – there was no stopping it. They were like two stars colliding, changing the material that they are both made of permanently. The blow had mingled their compounds until there was no possible way that either of them could ever be completely separate from the other again.

‘James might have told you some stories about me,’ John says, feeling brave. ‘But he also told _me_ some things about _you_.’

Thomas laughs, excitedly. ‘Only good things, I hope?’

‘I must admit,’ John says, ‘I had always hoped to meet you one day. After all, you were the man who was the incitement of it all. You were everything to him. The way he talked about you, I couldn’t help but have high expectations.’

Thomas gives him a sly smile. ‘Does your use of the past tense betray a change of mind, Mister Silver?’

John laughs, just a little too loudly. ‘Not at all. It’s just interesting to put a face to the name, so to speak. The man he fought for, the entire time that I knew him. Sitting in my tavern and drinking my rum.’

‘It’s alright,’ Thomas says. ‘I can understand that meeting me in person might be a bit of a disillusion. After ten years, it is very likely that James was only able to remember the good times we had. That is what loss tends to do. It glosses over everything until all that’s left shines in the light.’

Thomas stops speaking and quietly stares into his glass. He is undoubtedly going over his own memories of James.

‘I have to agree’, John remarks. ‘Memories are about as unreliable as a cook with a five-million-dollar schedule,’ he says, and smirks.

Thomas wakes up from his thoughts and smiles at him. ‘Ah, but the cook _was_ reliable, wasn’t he? He kept his promise to deliver the schedule.’

John is a little surprised that Thomas understands what he is referring to. He didn’t think James would have told Thomas the details of his past. He thought that James would have wanted to forget everything. Everyone.

‘He was reliable for as long as it served his own interests,’ John says. ‘But in the end, he still betrayed everyone and screwed over all of their interests and ambitions.’

‘What he did might in itself have been wrong, but he did it for the right reasons. He feared for the safety of the people he loved, and this was the only way he could see to ensure their survival.’ Thomas’ kind blue eyes are seeing right through John. ‘Wasn’t it like that?’

John clenches his jaw. ‘You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like.’

‘I can imagine it was difficult, for all of you. You and Madi and James. They both cared for you, and you cared for them, but there were things going on that were bigger than any of you, and they saw the importance of those things. They were willing to put anything aside for the freedom and prosperity of the New World, which was selfless and selfish of them at the same time. Just like what you did, ending the war to stop the endless fighting and bloodspill, was both.’

Thomas is so understanding about the conflicted feelings John has been having ever since the war. He takes John apart like it’s nothing, with ease, yet so very carefully, with so much compassion. He doesn’t seem angry about what John did. Perhaps he is just good at hiding it. Then again, what’s the use in making a fuss about it now, after so many years.

All John ever wanted was to find peace, not just for himself but for all of them. Still, something deep inside him never stopped fighting. Over the years it kept on knocking itself against his ribcage, pressing the air out of his lungs, sometimes only seeming to grow stronger instead of dying out. He identified one part of it as _doubt._ Wondering if he did the right thing. If it had been worth it. Another part was _grief_. Because this was the only way their story could have gone. They were meant for tragedy. And the sharpest, fiercest of all, he learned, was _love_. Always, always love.

John’s head has started to feel heavy from the rum. ‘I am sorry’ he says, ‘but I really need to lock up the place.’

Thomas sits up. ‘Of course. I should probably be going.’

‘No, it’s fine. That’s not what I meant.’ John makes a vague gesture with his hand. ‘You should stay, if you like. We have some rooms upstairs.’

He doesn’t want Thomas to go yet. Having Thomas around makes him feel closer to James somehow, even if it is only for a little bit. Like Thomas carries some part of James with him.

Thomas looks at John, considering his words. ‘I would like that. If I’m not too much of a bother for you.’

‘Oh, believe me, you are, but the rules of courtesy demand that I always remain polite to my guests,’ John says with a smirk. It’s a bold thing to say to a man he has basically only just met, even if it’s just teasing, but John figures Thomas is the kind of man who won’t easily be startled.

Thomas smiles at him. ‘If this is how you talk to all your guests then I can see why this is a successful business.’

John makes his round through the tavern like he does every night, locking the door and dimming the last few lights in the room. Thomas sits at the bar waiting patiently, not making any new attempts at helping him out.

When he has finished his tasks, John turns to him. ‘Let’s go. I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms.’

Thomas follows John. Over the years John has become rather handy in moving around on his one leg and his crutch – most importantly, he has learned to take his time. They make their way up the stairs slowly. Outside the wind blows around the building, a softly rustling sound in the background. 

They walk down the small hallway, stopping in front of a door on the right at the far end. John takes a key from the bundle that hangs from the belt around his waist and opens the door. He coughs when he steps inside – the room is dusty from neglect. Pale moonlight falls through the window, onto the small bed, the basic furniture, the worn-down carpet on the wooden floor. Thomas walks into the room and looks around. He drapes his coat and scarf over the chair in the corner.

John walks over to the desk at the side, takes the box of matches lying there and lights the oil lamp on the night stand.

‘It’s not much, but it will do, I suppose,’ he says apologetically.

Thomas smiles at him. ‘It is fine,’ he says.

John notices that Thomas is still holding the bottle of rum in his hand.

‘The rum,’ John says, and he makes another vague gesture, sort of half-pointing.

‘Oh.’ Thomas looks down at his hand, as if he wasn’t aware of the object in it before John mentioned it. He smiles at John, and shrugs. ‘I suppose it would be a waste of good liquor not to finish it. Wouldn’t you agree?’

John huffs a laugh. ‘I like your way of thinking.’ He walks back to shut the door. 

Thomas sits down on the chair in the corner. It’s the only chair in the room, so John takes a seat at the edge of the bed, letting out a deep sigh. Thomas pulls the chair closer to the bed so he can easily pass the rum to John.

They drink straight from the bottle, Thomas sagged back in the chair, John leaning back on the bed. The drink has made them feel pleasantly warm and tipsy.

‘Did he also tell you,’ John says with a heavy tongue, ‘of the time we took a Spanish man-of-war together?’

Thomas starts laughing. ‘”What the fuck did you think was going to happen?!’”, he yells, mimicking James’ voice.

In unison, they yell ‘”DO IT!”’ and burst out laughing, tears streaming down their faces.

John feels hysterical, remembering the crazy things they did. He hadn’t thought about them in a long time, but it is good to have these memories resurface for a bit. They prove that it wasn’t all bad. Some days he would be unable to remember anything but the dark, the fear, the panic. The whistling sound of cannon balls flying by, the screams of grown men crying for their mothers, splinters shooting in all directions.

But that wasn’t all there was. It didn’t all hurt. The good times are always easy to forget, especially when they are overshadowed by the things that John now knows were to come for them. Everything seemed so simple, so easy back then, in those moments. When it all didn’t mean that much yet. When there were no complicated feelings between them. When they were just two men trying to survive.

Thomas and John wipe the tears from their eyes and sigh, still giggling.

‘It all seems so unreal, looking back at it,’ John says, and sighs. ‘I can’t believe the things we’ve done.’

‘You totally got the exciting part, with James. I spent years just bloody _weeding_ and _ploughing_ and _cropping_. I would have died of boredom if I hadn’t had fellow inmates to talk to. And then there was the time I spent in Bedlam Royal Hospital, of course, which was a whole other kind of hell.’

‘Life is fucking unfair. Cheers to that’ John says, and he raises the bottle in a toast. He brings it to his mouth; only a few drops come out and then it’s empty. ‘Well, there you go,’ he mutters, and throws the bottle onto the floor. It rolls away from them over the wooden surface.

Thomas is undisturbed by the sound of the bottle hitting the floor. ‘Life is unfair and cruel in many ways, but it can also bring you happiness at the most unexpected times.’

‘Do you really have to make every conversation you have into a discussion?’ John groans.

Thomas smiles at him. ‘It is my only flaw.’

‘I am glad you were happy,’ John says. ‘That’s all I ever wanted. For him to be happy. You gave him that.’ He chokes up on the last few words.

Thomas leans forward, putting his hand on John’s left knee. ‘ _You_ gave him that.’ He looks down at where he put his hand – on John’s bad leg.

He quickly pulls it back. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be, it’s fine,’ John says. ‘Even I still forget about it sometimes.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Not much anymore. It’s long healed. You want to see it?’

Thomas looks at him a bit unsure.  

‘Have you ever seen a stump?’ John asks.  

‘No, not like that. Only some people at the plantation who had lost a finger or a toe with the work there.’

John can feel Thomas’ eyes on him as he rolls up the leg of his trousers, exposing his stump. He isn’t sure why he’s doing it. The rum probably plays a part in the action. But he also wants to see if he can get a reaction out of Thomas, stir him up a little bit. He is a nobleman, or at least he was once. Surely he won’t be able to handle the sight of something as hideous as an amputated leg.

Thomas looks at his leg while John leans back. No signs of repulsion yet on his face.

‘Can I touch it?’ he asks.  

John is taken aback a bit at that. Still, he tells Thomas that he can.  

Thomas reaches out and lets the tips of his fingers graze lightly over the scarred tissue. His touch is tender and warm, careful, yet without reserve. The sensation shoots up through Silver’s leg, and surprisingly, right into his groin.  

Oh.

Thomas’ fingers keep brushing over his skin and John can hardly suppress the shiver that goes through him.

Thomas, unfortunately for John, turns out to be an incredibly perceptive man. He quirks an eyebrow. ‘Are you alright? Or should I stop?’

‘Yes,’ John breathes.

Thomas laughs. ‘Yes at which one?’

Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe it’s his lonely heart. In the soft, orange light of the lamp, casting sharp shadows over Thomas’ features, giving his hair a warm-golden shimmer, he almost looks somewhat like James. Like how James might have looked if John had ever seen him again.

John wants to reach out to him, touch him and pull him closer, but he holds back. It would be inappropriate. Thomas is mourning James. John can’t ask this of him.

Except that Thomas’ hand is still resting on John’s knee, and his eyes move back and forth between John’s eyes and mouth.

John leans forward, only slightly, but it is enough; Thomas mimics his movement and they kiss, sort of. It’s only their lips lightly brushing against each other, warm and dry.

John pulls back. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’ Thomas asks.

John holds his breath.

‘Kiss me again.’

Thomas does, more confidently this time. John cups Thomas’ face with both hands. The stubble there lightly grazes over his palms. He opens his mouth and Thomas’ tongue slips inside, bringing with it the bitter taste of the rum.

Thomas’ hand travels up from John’s knee over his thigh. He stops there – hesitates.

‘Touch me,’ John encourages him. ‘Please, touch me.’

Thomas’ hand leaves his thigh to pulls at John’s shirt, lifting it from his trousers so he can slip his hand underneath and let it roam over John’s stomach, up to his chest.

John moans into Thomas’ mouth. It’s strange, new – touching and being touched by another man. But good. Exciting. Thomas is confident in his movements, which is a comfort to John. At least one of them knows what they’re doing. He can already feel himself getting hard – it’s almost embarrassing how little stimulation he needs.

He grabs the hem of Thomas’ shirt to pull it off him, and when it doesn’t go fast enough for John’s liking he starts to tear at it, until Thomas stops him by gently taking hold of his wrists.

John lifts an eyebrow. Thomas looks down at their hands and swallows.

‘This is his shirt,’ he says quietly.

John only notices it now – how the dark fabric stretches over Thomas’ chest just a little too tightly, how the sleeves barely reach down to his wrists.

‘Keep it on,’ John says.

He lets go of the shirt and wraps his arms around Thomas’ shoulders. He leans back, pulling Thomas with him, down onto the bed. Thomas kneels between his thighs. The bedframe creeks under their combined weight.

Thomas pulls the string from John’s hair, allowing his curls to fall freely around his face, dark and heavy as a starless night. He pulls at John’s hair and John throws his head back, baring his throat. Thomas kisses it, licks at John’s pulse, grazes his teeth over his skin.

John moans and fists his hands into the fabric of Thomas’ shirt. He has to let go for a moment in order to let Thomas pull John’s shirt off over his head.

Thomas moves down, peppers kisses over John’s chest. He kisses further down, nuzzles the trail of hair on John’s belly. John moves his hands over Thomas’ head, tries to find a grip on his short hair. He subtly pushes at his head, encouraging Thomas to stay the course.

He presses his mouth to John’s crotch, and John arches his back – he can feel the heat of Thomas’ breath through the fabric of his trousers. Thomas unbuttons his trousers and pulls out his cock. John moans at the touch, writhing in the sheets.

Thomas wraps his hand around the base of John’s cock, gives it a few strokes and takes the head into his mouth. John gasps as Thomas closes his lips around him, surrounding John in delicious warmth and softness and wetness.

John thinks about how he is going to tell Madi, when she comes back home, that James has passed. He wonders how she will take the news of his death. He hopes she doesn’t cry; he hates seeing her cry.

John tries to concentrate on Thomas’ mouth around his cock, sucking at him, his tongue pressing against the slit.

James had told Thomas about Madi and John. Thomas knows who they were to James. John wonders what James told Thomas about them exactly. Whatever it was, Thomas probably hadn’t expected to end up in bed with John when he set foot into the tavern. Then again, John did not expect his quiet evening to turn out this way.

Thomas has come all the way from Savannah to tell them of James’ death. Maybe James asked Thomas to go look for Madi and John after he would have passed, to let them know that their beloved Captain was no more. Perhaps James had fallen ill and wished to see them one last time, but it had all happened too quickly, there had been too little time to send someone to fetch them. Too late to make peace with each other.

Despite Thomas’ well-intended efforts, John’s cock has gradually gone soft.

John’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. Thomas must secretly be laughing at him. Yet another thing to add to the long list of John’s flaws.

It doesn’t seem to discourage Thomas, however. He slowly starts taking John further down, bobs his head up and down experimentally.

Whatever Thomas tries to do, it isn’t helping.

John grinds his teeth and silently curses himself. He’s getting laid for the first time in God knows how long but he can’t even concentrate on it. It’s too good. Too pleasant, too soft. Thomas’ gentle touches make John feel restless. He needs to do something, instead of having things done to him. He needs to take control, if he is going to get off sometime tonight.

He props himself up on his elbows and touches the back of Thomas’ head.

‘Stop,’ he says, at which Thomas lets John’s cock drop from his mouth. John shivers at the sudden feel of cold air on his skin. Thomas sits back between John’s thighs and looks at him.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to force you –’

‘You didn’t,’ John says. ‘I want –’

He doesn’t know what it is he wants exactly.

He wants _more, deeper, harder._

He doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs.

He needs _rougher, sharper, faster._

He looks directly into Thomas’ eyes.

‘I want to feel your cock inside me. I want you to lie back and let me ride you.’

Thomas looks at him for a moment, breathless, then asks, ‘Do you have oil?’

‘Wait here,’ John says. ‘I’ll be right back.’

John climbs out of the bed, leaving Thomas behind. He grabs his crutch that lay discarded by the side of the bed and makes his way over to his and Madi’s private rooms. In their bedroom he searches through some drawers until he finds a small jar with oil.

John closes the drawer and from the corner of his eye he notices something moving, making the hairs on his arms stand up straight. He looks up and stares into a pair of familiar eyes – his own, reflected in the mirror on the wall to his left. The room is so dark he can just barely make out his own silhouette. For a couple of seconds he just stands there, staring, the jar clasped into his hand.

He had been feeling brave earlier. Now, as he sees himself standing there, all he feels is small and pathetic. He barely recognises himself. Looking like some dark, otherworldly creature.

He shakes off the image and returns to the guest room. He finds Thomas there lying on his back on the bed, completely naked. He has one arm draped above his head and is stroking himself lazily. John stands in the doorframe for a moment, mesmerised, until Thomas notices him standing there.

He smiles at John. ‘Found it?’

John walks over to the bed and crawls on top of Thomas, straddling his lap.

Having sex is not as simple as it once was – missing a leg tends to make things more difficult. Keeping his balance, finding a comfortable position that he can hold for more than a couple of minutes –  he has to consider these things now, in moments when all he wants to do is _not_ think _._

He puts his weight on his right leg and places his hands on the headboard behind Thomas’s head, holding on for balance. With Thomas supporting him with a hand at his waist, it should work. He will make it work.

He takes the jar and pours a gratuitous amount of oil into his hand and slicks his fingers with it. He reaches back behind himself and pushes a finger into his ass, deep in one go.

He doesn’t take the time to prepare himself properly. It hurts more than it feels good when he pushes a second finger in. He doesn’t care. Whether he feels pleasure or pain, it doesn’t matter – as long as it pushes out the numbness in his heart, the heavy air in his lungs.

Thomas’ cock is not small but it is also not overly large, so he should be able to take him, even with little preparation.

John has his eyes closed but his cheeks burn at the thought of Thomas watching him finger himself. He feels Thomas’ hands on him, moving over John’s thighs and stomach. Hears him panting heavily.

John keeps pushing, keeps giving just a little more than he can take, until it slowly gets easier.

He pulls his fingers out. He reaches for the oil again and coats Thomas’ cock with it.

Thomas takes hold of his own cock and lines it up with John’s ass, pressing the head against his entrance.

John sinks down and the world around him vanishes. All there is, is the burning stretch around Thomas’s cock, the warm pressure of it inside his body.

‘Oh, _Christ,_ John,’ Thomas breathes.

John grunts, commanding his body to do as he wants, willing it forward despite the signals it is sending him.

Thomas sees the discomfort on Johns face and gives him a worried look.

‘Are you –?’

‘I’m fine,’ John groans. ‘Just give me a minute.’ He holds still, allowing himself a moment to breathe in deep.

It takes a few careful thrusts before he can take it all. When he finally sits down, when Thomas’s cock is filling him up completely, he sighs. He feels grounded. He feels _here._ Present in his body.

His own cock is half-limp, but John doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to come. Thomas seems to think otherwise – he wraps his hand around John’s cock and starts stroking it. Strong, skilled fingers are rubbing him up and down, quickly working him back into full hardness. Thomas’ hand moves in time with the rolls of John’s hips.

 _This is how they touched_ , John thinks, _Thomas and James_. Perhaps they did this too. Perhaps his Captain used to ride Thomas just like this. John’s cock jerks at the thought of James sitting on top of Thomas like this, just like this, Thomas’ cock buried deep in his ass. He imagines James using his mouth on Thomas, sucking him off, taking him further down until Thomas hits the back of his throat.

His cock is leaking into Thomas’ hand. Thomas catches the precome on his fingers and smooths it down John’s length. John clenches down on Thomas’ cock, drawing a moan from his lips.

Thomas digs his heels into the mattress to thrust up into John, meeting his movements.

Is this how James liked it? Did he like it rough? Did he like to be fucked and used until his throat was raw, until he saw stars?

John rocks his hips harshly, snapping. Creating a wet, filthy sound with every thrust.

It hurts, burns, which is exactly what he wants – he wants it, _needs_ it to hurt. He needs the physical sensation to distract him, to block out the thoughts that are taking over his mind.

What would James have tasted like, hot and heavy on John’s tongue. Would James have let John fuck him? Would he have liked that, being pressed down into the mattress by John’s weight, split on his cock?

A mad, irrational, stinging jealousy rises in John. Something snaps inside him – something that he has been holding together with both hands for a very long time.

Thomas touched James. Thomas loved him. Thomas saw his face as they woke up next to each other. Thomas saw James’ face as he was making tea, Thomas saw James’ face as he was lost in a book. Thomas saw James’ face as they laughed together. He saw the light reflected in his bright green eyes, the sun making his hair look golden and aflame. He could have counted every single freckle on James’ skin.

John’s body aches with the effort of every movement. His muscles are straining, shaking heavily, threatening to give out.

His throat is swelling, cutting off his breath. His eyes start to burn. He feels the waves rising inside of him, crashing down on him, pulling him under.  

This is what he could have had with James. This is what they could have had, what they could have been, in another time, in another place. In another life. This could have been their story. Except it wasn’t. John made sure of that, by ending it before it had even started. He decided that it wasn’t for them. He ruined it for both of them.

His shoulders shake. He takes deep, shuddering breaths through his nose, lets out soft, heavy puffs of air through his mouth.

And now James is gone and it is too late.

Tears well up in his eyes. They stream down his face, into his moustache and beard. They fall down onto Thomas’ collarbones, leaving wet marks on his skin, mingling with his sweat.

John pushes down, spreads his legs further to sit down lower in Thomas’ lap and take him deeper. It hurts, it hurts, and it burns, but it isn’t enough to distract him from the pain he feels in his heart, his soul, the very core of his being.

John lets go of the headboard with one hand to fist it into Thomas’ shirt – _James’_ shirt _._

 _Lovers_ is what they could have been _–_ but _friends_ is what they were. There are no second chances in this unforgiving life. All there is, is grief, and guilt, and regret.

He is breathing hard, tries to keep breathing. Through the blur of his tears, he sees Thomas lifting his hand. He places it on John’s damp cheek, strokes his thumb over the tracks of his tears.

‘Don’t,’ John bites at him, his voice hoarse from the tightness in his throat. He clenches his jaw, fights against the thing inside him that is begging him to just give in and let go.

Thomas’ eyes are red and puffy. They shine wetly in the moonlight that falls through the window.

‘John.’

He discerns all the different meanings in Thomas’ voice.

_Don’t be so stubborn._

_It’s alright._

_I know what it’s like._

Thomas’ hand on his burning skin feels smooth, his touch delicate, an immeasurable contrast with the burning stretch of his cock inside John’s ass. John cannot help the soft, whimpering sounds that escape him. His hips are faltering, losing their rhythm.

James is gone and nothing will ever bring him back.

He lies buried in a place somewhere across the ocean, a place he called ‘home’, where John has never been. His body is dissolving, being taken up by the earth, and soon there will be nothing left of him, as if he were never there in the first place. There will be nothing left of his charm, nothing of his intelligence, nothing of his passion. Nothing of the man John knew and loved.

All that will be left of James is his ghost to haunt John for the rest of his life.

John is rocking back and forth in Thomas’ lap. He barely knows what he is doing anymore, except for panting, and crying, and wailing. He feels stupid for crying in front of Thomas. He has no right to be feeling this way. Thomas has lost his life partner, his soulmate. What has John lost, in comparison to that? He hasn’t _lost_ anyone – he willingly _chose_ to let go, a long time ago. It was his own fault, and he has to live with that.

‘John,’ Thomas whispers, his voice coming from somewhere far away. ‘It’s alright.’

He feels so tired. Tired of feeling so many conflicting things. Tired of fighting against himself.

John wishes he could lie with James, wrap himself around his cold bones.

He wants to rest with him. He wants to finally put an end to the unbearable weight of his absence that has been pressing down on John every single day since he left.

John envies the dirt that cradles James’ body. He envies the weeds that grow over his grave, digging their roots into him. And most of all, John envies the man lying underneath him in this bed, who has known James in ways that John never will.

Every single muscle in his body is tense, straining. The stump of his leg has started to sting from him putting too much pressure on it.

He despises Thomas, for coming here and disturbing John’s illusion of peace. He despises Madi, for blaming him for every single part of their miserable lives. He despises himself, for trying to stay standing for so long but being brought down to his knees so easily in the end.

He despises James, for resting in peace and leaving the shards for John to pick up.

Dying is easy. _Living_ is what takes effort.

John turns his head under Thomas’ hand, opens his mouth and takes two of Thomas’ fingers into him. He sucks at them, grazes his teeth over the joints, bites into the soft flesh.

Thomas understands. He pushes further, into John’s throat, making him gag. John drools around Thomas’ fingers, spit running over his lips, over his chin, into his beard. It feels good. It feels like something he needs. Thomas’ fingers in his mouth prevent him from being able to make any sound, other than soft, muffled whimpers. He feels grateful.

The pressure in his throat makes it hard to breathe, makes John feel light-headed from the lack of air in his lungs.

John regains control over his body. He digs the fingers of his left hand into the headboard, pulls at the shirt with his right. His hips find their rhythm again. John pushes down and is met by the upward thrust of Thomas’ hips.

John feels him deeper, harder, burning with every thrust. Every single nerve in John’s body is alight with either pain or pleasure, he can’t much tell.

He is full, so full. This is what he was made for. This is what he was meant to do. There is nothing else. Nothing but Thomas’ big, wet cock moving in and out of him. This is _solid_ , this is _real._

Thomas’ hand slips away from his mouth to grab John’s hip on his left side, his fingers digging into the flesh and bone, adding to the mixture of pleasure and pain.

‘James,’ one of them says, but John cannot make out who.

Thomas gasps, his hips stutter in their upward movements, and he is coming inside John. John feels his cock pulsing deep inside him, sending shivers down his spine, making him gasp for air.

Thomas’ grip on John’s cock loosens for a moment, leaving John with only a feather-light touch, before Thomas recollects himself. He wraps his fingers back around him tightly, pushing John over the edge. He spills himself in Thomas’ hand.

John keeps rocking his hips until it becomes too much, and he collapses forward onto Thomas. Thomas’ cock slips out of him, leaving him hollow and empty. John whines softly at the loss. He will probably still be able to feel him tomorrow, along with the soreness in every other part of his body.

John buries his face in the pillow, pressing his forehead into it, just beside Thomas’ neck. He lets the aftershocks of his orgasm wash over him.

He’s still shaking, even after some minutes – not from his orgasm, but because he’s still crying and doesn’t know how to stop. The pillow under his face turns damp from his tears and drool.

He lies there, on top of Thomas, and weeps silently. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers Thomas stroking his hair, rubbing a hand over the small of his back.  

He digs his fingers into Thomas’ shoulders.

Would James have loved him the same way he loved Thomas?

John presses his nose to Thomas’ shoulder and takes a deep, shuddering breath. He takes in the smell of his shirt, hoping to smell James somehow, even if it is only a trace of him. He hopes to find a reminder, however small it might be, that he was real, that he existed, even outside of John’s view.

He smells sweat, and earth, and cotton. But nothing that reminds him of James. Perhaps it is there but John has forgotten his scent.

Would James have welcomed him if he had showed up on his doorstep after so many years?

It is probably for the best that John will never find out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> _It is better this way, yes I know / Still I cannot help that I miss you so._
> 
> I'm @undiscovereduniverse on tumblr - feel free to come and yell at me. Or punch me in the face.


End file.
